


The Wyvern

by pudgy puk (deumion)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Action, Adventure, Dragons, Gen, Heresy, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 17:40:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19322974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deumion/pseuds/pudgy%20puk
Summary: A brief adventure of Aymeric and Estinien; a tale from the Dragonsong War.





	The Wyvern

Estinien was still gone.

No one else in their company of soldiers did more than remark on it, but it was beginning to gnaw at Aymeric’s mind—and his conscience. The dragoon errant wasn’t gone _very_ long, but…

They had been dispatched to a small hamlet, far east from the capital, wet and sweltering in high summer (one soldier swore she’d missed one spot cleaning her mail and overnight something green was growing through it). A band of heretics had been harrying the villagers two moons—starting with rustling livestock, then moving up to robbery, and shortly after an instance of banditry an old woman was dead and a wyvern had been sighted and it was now Knights Dragoon and Templar business. Today he’d spent collecting necessary information from the local guard and a few of the menaced villagers, tomorrow Aymeric would be helping their commander—a grey-haired and gold-eyed man, Ser Thibault, known for his caution and thoroughness—plan the attack. He needed his rest. Yet…

Yet here he was, lingering near the barn where they’d improvised stabling for their chocobos, not walking toward the inn where proper spoken lodgings had been set up. Three and a half bells past, he’d stood in this very spot, awkwardly eavesdropping on a spirited… “discussion” between Ser Thibault and Estinien while brushing his bird. Three bells past and in the company of rowdy friends headed directly to the tavern, he’d bumped into him heading back to the barn. Estinien had seemed surly (not unusual) and standoffish (also not unusual) but refused to meet Aymeric’s eyes when he turned down the invitation to join them and simply said he was going to look at the stars (extremely unusual). And Aymeric had let it be, but…

The sun was probably not quite below the horizon proper, but it was beneath the trees, and the approaching twilight was quickly growing misty. East of the barn was a brief pasture that quickly slumped and crumpled into the beginnings of a bog, frogs and insects no longer visible but quite audible. According to Estinien, this was a prime place for wyverns to silently rest and recuperate—which had surprised Aymeric to hear, as it had their commander. “Nonsense,” he’d called it, in fact. And “Foolish old country-wives’ prattle.”

But Estinien had been adamant. “A grey wyvern and its mate would find it good hunting—”

“—They’d find it cold and wet and too inconvenient for their heretic allies, Estinien—”

“—if I followed broken nest branches—”

“—and you may be a Knight Dragoon but _I_ am the commander—”

“—kill the female, then her—”

“ _Enough_!”

That had been the end of Estinien’s protestations, and he’d stormed off back into the town, then. And now…

Again Aymeric looked between east and west—between the village and the wilderness it emerged from—and with one long sigh of resignation went to retrieve his chocobo.

Forty minutes later, he was half as far out as he expected to be and wrestling with a very strong urge to turn back. The mud under his bird’s feet had the consistency of bread pudding, a hundred tiny vilekin were buzzing around them both, and the stink was beyond unbearable and into ungodly. That a dragon, with even stronger senses than his, would enjoy this place was unimaginable and Aymeric was repenting of ever doubting Ser Thibault. Not only had he been right about the marsh, but he’d been right in his argument against Estinien leaving. Of the company, he’d said, they were two of three veterans of real dragon attacks—and fighting dragons was far different from fighting men. That made them dangerous, valuable men. Not men to waste scouting some irrelevant bog, which was where Ser Thibault and Estinien had had such vocal differences, and—

CRACK

His chocobo leapt into the air from startlement, Aymeric clinging to her neck, eyes shut tight to minimize lurching nausea. The branch that had broken above them hit the soft earth—followed by a chocobo bearing over two hundred ponzes of knight, armor, and tack. For moment after the impact, it was conspicuously silent, and then, as Aymeric opened his eyes to assess the situation, it ceased to be: Animals resumed calling, the leaves resumed rustling in the wind, his chocobo softly cried in distress and he, grumbling, slid off the saddle.

No surprise the bird was stuck, with the sponginess of the earth and the force behind the landing. Her soft coos to Aymeric, though, were growing more and more agitated as he worked to free her, no matter how he tried to soothe her.

“Steady—steady, girl—” Not compliments, not cooing, and no amount of stroking her crest could calm her growing distress, even though the sucking hold the marsh had on her ankles was loosening. No sooner had Aymeric had the bitter thought that being kicked by a chocobo would be a perfect development in this night than it happened—he freed her right foot wholly and she kicked him in the stomach so as to finish the job without his interference.

“Damned—swiving—hen!” Intermittently gasping and cursing, Aymeric pushed himself back up just as the chocobo freed her left foot, and though he half expected her to bolt, he did not expect what she did: assume a battle stance, tense and hissing, beak lifted up…

For the first time, Aymeric looked up.

Above him, looking almost comically oversized for its perch, was a grey wyvern, one talon hooked over the stump where the branch had fallen. It had soft-looking wings—which must, he realized, have allowed it owlish silent flight—and it was leaning towards him and his bird with naked interest in its glowing yellow gaze.

Aymeric exhaled softly. So, Estinien had been right all along. As slowly as he could, he reached behind him for his bow, as if a wyvern was stupid enough to be lulled by slowness and quietude. Yet all the same, elezen regarded wyvern and wyvern elezen without outward aggression, as tension built in the air between them—he could practically hear it in the wind. Distantly, Aymeric wondered why it wasn’t attacking—why it _hadn’t_ attacked—even if it possessed a man’s wit, wouldn’t a wyvern lunge for any young knight…

And for a moment, it felt like time slowed even more, like he was watching his thoughts move and waiting to learn what he just deduced, while the wind turned from rustling to whistling—

He realized what was happening a split second before the wyvern did, and ducked behind his bird—so he did not _see_ the impact of a dragoon’s jump, but the hideous screech the beast made was proof enough that Estinien’s spear had drawn first blood. Then his chocobo was charging in to finish the wyvern off, as Estinien gracefully backflipped into view.

Aymeric had just opened his mouth to thank him when his friend growled “What took you so long?”

So, instead, Aymeric asked “Is he dead?”

“No, it’s—” The beating of the wyvern’s wings whipped the wind around them and straight out of Estinien’s mouth—Aymeric’s chocobo was knocked back with a pained squawk as the wyvern limped airborne again, blood from the wound in its hindquarters splattering in the mud.

“Shoot!” Estinien shouted, furiously gesturing at Aymeric—as a dragoon, he was penned in by the canopy and undergrowth. “What are you waiting for?! _Shoot it!_ ”

But Aymeric did not, rather watched the wyvern get distance as if he was in a daze, while Estinien cursed at him—he didn’t snap out of it until Estinien was actually shaking him.

“What in Halone’s name is _wrong_ with you?! It got away!!”

“No…” Aymeric breathed. “No, he didn’t.” Estinien actually grabbed him by his collar then, fury radiating off him—but Aymeric pushed him away, one hand over his mouth. “Wait, list— _listen!_ ”

Estinien said something (probably something extremely crude) into the thick leather of his glove, and struggled further.

“Trust me,” Aymeric hissed, right before Estinien found freedom by elbowing him in the gut. But Estinien didn’t lash out at him further—instead, he was silent and still, and actually seemed to be listening, for…

“Help!”

The commander’s voice.

“Ser Thibault?” Estinien sounded both confused and alarmed, and he crashed into the underbrush after Thibault’s call for help. Aymeric followed, more slowly.

“Estinien? Oh—oh, praise Halone—The wyvern, she—”

When Aymeric arrived, Estinien was supporting Ser Thibault, who was clearly direly wounded, blood drenching one leg. He helped him walk, arms slung across each other’s shoulders. “Aymeric? Good, Aymeric, get the commander’s other side—”

“Get away from him, Estinien.”

“What?” Estinien jerked his head up, and his eyes went wide when he saw Aymeric had nocked an arrow and was pulling it back.

“Get away. Thibault must stand trial for his heresy.” Aymeric said calmly, but with the arrow still not quite ready to fire. Not yet.

“Aymeric—”

“—Aymeric de Borel, I _order you_ to unstring your bow. I am not the one who will stand trial.” Ser Thibault’s voice was much stronger and clearer than it had been a moment ago. “Estinien, restrain him.”

Estinien looked between the both of them, clearly shaken. “Ser Thibault, Aymeric is—he would not—”

“I’m sure he would never, were he in his right mind,” Ser Thibault said, kindly. Aymeric remained still, waiting. “The wyvern’s blood must have corrupted him.”

Horror flashed in Estinien’s eyes, and he reached for his spear with his free arm.

Now Aymeric drew the arrow back fully, to his ear. The opportune moment had at last presented itself: “How would you know that?”

Estinien blinked, then glanced down again—and pushed Thibault away near-instantly, recoiling with both anger and revulsion. But an elezen man did not hit the muck of the swamp—he was already beginning to change, arms twisting to wyvern wings—

An arrow between his eyes stopped him.

“By Halone,” Estinien marveled—not at Thibault’stwitching, misshapen corpse, but at Aymeric (who was finally breathing again). “How did you know?”

Aymeric didn’t answer right away, rather concentrated on his breathing. _Fury_ , but that could have… “The wyvern was too cautious. He knew—he knew I was a dangerous and valuable knight.” And so did Thibault.

“And he was wounded in the same leg as the wyvern,” Estinien said, shaking his head—then jerking it up. “That’s why he didn’t want me to scout here!”

“Yes,” Aymeric agreed. In hindsight, it all made perfect sense, and _Gods_ but he was grateful they were there to see it in this life, not the next. He didn’t ever want to be faced with the prospect of sighting Estinien along the shaft of his arrow.

“Halone’s…” Estinien trailed off, apparently incapable of conjuring an oath strong enough for his feelings. “I don’t know what I—”

“I know,” Aymeric interrupted him, looking him in the eyes for the first time since loosing that arrow. After a moment, he smiled for the first time in bells. “Never run off like that ever again.”

Estinien let out a short laugh. “No promises.”

**Author's Note:**

> For some reason Aymeric keeps taking blows to the stomach whenever I involve him in anything action-ish...
> 
> (I really need a good way to organize my now-extensive corpus of works for this fandom and I am open to suggestions)


End file.
